


your breath like moonlight

by Archistratego



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, How Do I Tag, Hux is Not Nice, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, author is learning to use tags RIP, fae Hux, lots of coffee drinking, photographer Ben, universe hopping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-10-13 13:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10514742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archistratego/pseuds/Archistratego
Summary: People who are lost in the woods do not come to good ends, monsters do not discriminate between good and bad men.Ben sees his first fae when he’s five years old and crying up a storm. He has an old, blurry Polaroid of a redhead that haunts him.Armitage is the name of a corpse. He is just Hux, leader of the Knights of Ren, second in command to an Emperor of a world caught in eternal winter.Fae AU. //on hiatus





	1. the name in your nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [bona--mana](http://bona--mana.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, please go and let them know how wonderful and inspiring their fanarts are. A big thank you to [Holly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb) for feedback, and to my beta [Xia](http://lxcuna.tumblr.com/) who is the best.

A long, long time ago — ( _It's cold_ ). The air is heavy with a frost that sears the skin before it sinks into the bone, biting deep — digging in with jagged teeth and refusing to relinquish its hold as it drags you down. Hux enjoys the familiarity. Once Arkanis had a damp, rainy kind of climate, the weather seemingly determined to wear any and all inhabitants into the dirt. ( _It's home_ ).

He dismounts, holding the reins steady in a black-gloved fist as he cuts a path towards an innocuous opening in the stone ahead, leaving no footprints to trail behind him. The entrance is covered by a layer of dark brown, brittle vines, long dead with the cold; through here, he enters the darkness.

( _It's home_ ).

His hair is dusted with snow by the time he reaches the court’s doors, their peeling surface another sign of the ongoing decay — this withering shadow place which is home only to phantoms now.

Hux remembers his mother, her warmth when she enfolded him in her arms and whispered the truth of the world in his ears.

She had been so beautiful — at least, in Hux’s recollections of her, and in the descriptions painted through his emperor’s words. Her hair had been a shimmering waterfall of gold-red, the colour of autumn; her frame, thin, like the leaves of spring, and full of hope. All Hux had inherited from her was superficial; he had learnt long ago to keep hopes within the realm of possibility. That is to say — crushed firmly beneath the heels of his boots.

Indeed, it has been a long time since he had dreamt at all.

He feels small in this room, with its arches that twist upwards, disappearing into darkness, and its patched roof attacked by decay ( _His home_ ). Hux thinks the word like a spell, but it lacks the power of his forebears. It sticks in his mind and rattles like bones there. (His father’s were ground to dust and scattered to the winds).

He returns after an absence of years to an unchanged court; six figures kneeling in greeting, their robes rippling like shadows against the stark white tiles which spiral into a design too small for the eye to discern.

In summer, the floor had been warmed by the sun. Now, there are spells so that the snow does not cross the threshold of the roof. Even in his attire, there is a creeping chill that grips his spine, alongside the memories of his childhood (Hux remembers learning to count by memorising the patterns of the tiles here, his mother’s smile at his back).

“We didn’t expect you back so soon, Hux.” He knows to kneel as soon as that voice echoes across the chamber, and everyone stops. Those who had not taken notice of him before do so now, regarding Hux with hollowed out eyes and thin lips. They’re starved, fading, dying (an unspoken truth); the court looks to him for answers. “You’re looking well.”

Hux has learnt many things since the emperor first arrived at the borders of Arkanis: order, order, order — the required foundation that kept worlds from clashing — and that the path to power is littered with corpses, including one’s own. _From it’s dying shell you evolve, Armitage_ — his name is drawn out, vibrating and threatening to shatter. Hux hates how his name sounds on those lips.

Around Hux, the knights wear nearly identical masks, feral edges palpable in their outlines despite an overall subservient countenance. There is a hunger in them when they flock to Hux — they want with greedy little mouths, and scalpel-sharp fingers — and they follow without question. When Hux rises, the six others imitate the motion, falling into line behind him.

“The mission was successful.” Hux tries not to feel too proud, but his tone betrays him, drunk on the intoxicating way everyone at court is hanging onto his every word. Nothing in this world can deny the nature of fae: voracious, prideful, capricious — Hux even more so than most as his appetite has never been restricted to humans only.

( _I was successful, I did this, this is mine, my design — mine, mine_ ).

The emperor steeples his fingers. “If you’d be so kind to hand it over,” he says, extending one hand, skin the colour of envy wearing several claw rings embedded with silver stones that shift like constellations. Hux cannot stop himself from moving forward and relinquishing his prize; skin and metal scraping against leather, Hux’s breath stutters as he feels the weight of the emperor’s power. “Thank you, Master Ren.” 

  


* * *

  


The camera shutter looks like an abyss opening and closing with each press of a finger; Ben loves the infinity behind each captured moment: preserved in film, unchanging, and eternal. His mother’s smile at Christmas with its kindness and fierceness and love — everything that made Ben’s heart ache; his cousin Rey’s graduation — her fingers wound with his, caught as Ben had turned the camera to snap the two of them — a rare instance.

Ben hates when the camera turns towards him, he prefers focusing towards what are memorable things. He is not. Even in his late twenties he’s all gangly limbs and broad chest, he doesn’t always know where to put his hands — the only time they feel right is when he adjusts the lens, balancing on the edge of the moment right until it ends, and slips the memory card out of the camera.

Then it’s time to lock himself up: dimly lit room, ridiculously expensive mac, endless supply of takeaway, as he edits. As a rule Ben doesn’t delete any photo he has ever taken, there are boxes of memory cards and film stowed away gathering enough dust to leave clear tracks if disturbed. Among them is an innocuous metal box with its harmless rusting edges stuffed to the brim with the weathered Polaroids from his first camera; the past in those photos is best left undisturbed.

And yet he can’t — on his computer screen the picture taken today makes his stomach churn, he’s five years old and staring with wonder at the trees — no, that was wrong. Those had been illusions at the corner of his eyes. A medical condition. 

Pressure builds up in his chest, steadily rising the more his gaze remains fixed on the screen, Ben clicks it close. “It’s fatigue.” Because the alternative — without looking he opens and closes the photo a few more times before snapping the laptop closed.

“Tomorrow.” Ben utters the word a few more times, using it as a mantra to get up from the desk, and stumble towards the dimly lit bathroom that has seen better days. The tub has taken an uncomfortable yellow hue despite the rounds of scrubbing and poured bleach. The sink isn’t much better, a crack on the left side where a lone toothbrush sits alongside Ben’s razor. 

It isn’t a bathroom that often sees anyone but Ben. Sometimes he brings someone back for the night, once or twice before purposely losing phone numbers. Loneliness is a ghost with wide set jaws latched onto his life. During the day it slumbers but at night it rattles around Ben’s head, heart, soul. 

Despite that insistent calling that urges him to go out and pick someone — anyone — to bring back, Ben brushes his teeth, and leaves a trail of discarded clothing as he climbs onto bed. 

Sleep comes easier than expected. Dreams of galaxies beneath his palms, the cosmos stretching into infinity above — where he could see all lifeforms scintillating like stars, turning into comets as they turned that corner towards their inevitable end.

Eventually he feels his body begin to turn downward, igniting brightly as he joins the others in their fall.

  
  


Ben wakes in sweat-soaked sheets, embarrassingly hard, and with the urge to go look again.

Ignoring his discomfort, he pads to the computer and opens it only to be greeted by the photo once more. Still the same as yesterday, out of focus and — a knot forms in his throat — Ben has to know.

All those years of therapy, of medication, of his parent’s disappointed faces: Leia’s smile becoming a rare occurrence, Han’s visits even more so — it still stifles something inside that make his eyes uncomfortably wet. Ben doesn’t like to think of it but he can’t stop since yesterday.

The metal box has been pulled out from its place among the dust so Ben could riffle through it’s contents with shaking hands. Tearing through its contents he dismisses picture by picture, it isn’t there — what he wants ( _needs to be certain_ ) a pressed white flower between frames before he finds it.

He turns the picture in his fingers. It had been an accidental shot and everything was barely in focus but even then it was unmistakable. Ben has been waiting all his life to see it again, that singular shade of golden red.

  


* * *

  


Thin as a slip of paper — thin as a slip of paper — thin as a slip of paper ——

( _Just as useless_ ).

Hux was born small and sickly for a fae; when the emperor — who was not an emperor yet — came, Hux thought he would be the first to die. Instead rough, leathery gloves took his face and tilted it up. Hux — who was not Hux then just little Armitage — felt the sting of tears at the corner of his eyes and met another fae’s heavy stare. It felt like a dissection of his soul, each layer folded back when her eyes sparked amber.

Her grip relaxed, an almost gentle hold as she turned her attention to the emperor-to-be, “He has potential.” Her declaration leaving no room for disagreement even before such a frightening fae that dripped power with each gesture.

“Does he?” The emperor-to-be’s voice was a physical force on its own, oppressive and all encompassing, it would be simple to make armies kneel at his command. Armitage suspects that if that tone were turned on him he’d be— he’d be— his thoughts stuttered, spiralling into hopelessness, death a certainty.

Armitage couldn’t suppress the shudder at the thought, but it was her gaze that was fixed on him again, “I’ll teach him.” Her smile sharp enough to cut, “You’ll see.” But her hand on his shoulder was warm, and Armitage was not afraid. Not of her.

“You’re not weak-willed at all, are you?”

Armitage drew himself up, half of his fate was hanging at the edge of the question, the other half lying in his answer. He wanted to live. “No, sir.”

  


* * *

  


Sitting for hours while Ben waits for the perfect shot makes spasms creep their way along his spine, and while he is used to it, the tension from his back has spread to the rest of his limbs. Poe had dropped by earlier, bringing a coffee before giving up trying to convince Ben to grab something to eat. Ben could get something later, after the man showed up again.

There is no certainty that the redhead will return, it might have been an anomaly, and in a city this large there are no guarantees that he will pass by again. But maybe, maybe. 

( _He has to_ ). 

The photo is proof enough of his existence — Ben is no longer a boy — that man had not been brought into being by his loneliness, his need for attention, the redhead was real. It was not about the man, but what his existence meant for Ben’s perception — the world was filled with shadows playing hide and seek. ( _What is not real can’t hurt you_ ).

Readjusting his position he brushes dirt off his knees with one hand. Shorts had seemed the better option this morning but currently he is beginning to regret that decision. His ice coffee is warm now and he grimaces at the discovery. After all, coffee ought to be either hot or cold, not this lukewarm in between that tastes of quickly souring milk and stale brew.

Two weeks of sitting in the same place and frustration is starting to carve a hole where hope had bloomed. The prints he sent are still at the shop, once those come back Ben will have irrefutable proof. He’d like to think his old Polaroid photo was all needed but couldn’t trust himself.

Time has a way of distorting memories, even infinity captured within paper is yellowed, and faded after a few years. Ben’s lucky the picture is vibrant enough to spot the long red locks, he has tried brushing the dust off the memory without success. It’s there but out of focus just like the Polaroid in his backpack.

Ben came here thinking of an excuse to breach the gap between them because this is the closest he has been to understanding.

(His grandfather’s voice scrapping the corners of his mind, his grandmother who left the house one midsummer eve — never came home). 

Heart stuttering at the flash of red, Ben jerks to his feet momentum carrying him forward towards an inevitable collision with the other.

  


* * *

  


“We missed you.”

Hux doesn’t doubt the sincerity of his knight’s words, they were made by him — vicious, feral tools honed to perfection by his own hand. What he _does_ doubt is the meaning behind the wrapped arms that keep him entrapped between sheets. Hux tries to hold in a long suffering sigh and fails miserably.

“Revan.” 

His knight is far from contrite, retracing the imprint of his teeth on Hux’s shoulder before nipping down briefly. It should’ve been expected, Revan is possessive in a way the others are not, and Hux almost, _almost_ tolerates it. After all Revan enjoys some privileges by virtue of having been Hux’s first pick of the knights.

“Revan.” Hux pinches the arm holding him, and is satisfied hearing Revan yelp before withdrawing his hold. He slides along the bed until there is a significant gap between them, and while breaching that physical boundary is easy, the emotional abyss between them is out of bounds. That is how Hux wants it, it is the unspoken rule for anyone who stayed in his bed.

“You should be celebrating, Hux.” Revan’s eyes are the colour of winter — grey, with a promised storm in their depths. “Do you remember all those centuries ago?” He’s licking his lips and sitting up to gesture wildly, light catching along the scars, the edges where bones meet beneath skin. Hux can see the imprint of his fingerprints on Revan’s hips.

Hux likes owning individuals. He likes visible reminders of it. And Revan is his unspoken right hand but favouritism had little to do with _trust._ The Knights of Ren are under the emperor’s direct jurisdiction, and that included their master, even if Hux was responsible for their inception: formidable enforcers that wielded fae magic with skill previously unseen.

“I remember.”

When he began blooming under Rae’s tutelage she presented him with a gift: the sons and daughters of conquered lands. Fae royalty brought in chains for him: dangerous, vicious, unkempt. Hux had been terrified, these orphans were as likely to slit his throat as they were to turn on each other, and tear themselves apart. 

Hux had found himself in the hollowed looks they gave him while his mind uncoiled, and wound around the task ahead. Things that were his should not be feared — though his hand trembled as he touched the tattered rags, their cadaverous features — Hux found his voice. 

“Hit him.”

His body had sang with power.

(The masks had come later, but Hux had made sure they kept that wild, unpredictable look — stark against the glacial elegance of the court. After the emperor came to power time lost meaning: it was just an endless loop of dancing and broken mortals passed about. Hux would dance, but he would not be aimless like the whitewashed fae around him. Hux became long limbed, dressed in black, shrouded with not blood but raw violence). 

Revan is his favourite because he had been the one to obey Hux’s first command: _hit him, hit him, hit him._ And in that single moment Hux had been born from Armitage with a simmering rage in his blood, and an insatiable craving in his soul.

That is why Hux sinks back and allows Revan a kiss, a bite, a bruise to welcome him home.

“I can’t believe we are so close.”

Hux’s smile is all sharp, vicious edges. He lives in a world that deserves wounds too deep to heal.

  


* * *

  


Rae, belonging to an empire that fell centuries ago, became his mentor in all things. She is, by now, the only one who calls him Armitage. A privilege given for having scrapped him together a long, long time ago. When he was pale, brittle bones under the predatory eye of the newly risen emperor. Those mornings he woke with bruised eyes until he learnt better, and earn a name: Hux, who is everything Armitage was not.

Rae always taught him to be more; serpent and apple, but Hux has never been able to stop being fire beneath the calculating layers that he’s donned like armour. His anger has become textured like molten lava slithering across the surface in a steady, unyielding manner.

Rae who watches his slight figure become lithe strength as he faces against the targets. It is often the case that her power overwhelms his own — she knows all the pressure points in his technique — it is a mirror of her own, slightly adapted to suit Hux’s strengths. Speed with precise blows; find the pressure point, and push — watch your enemy crack, crumble, die.

Rae worries. Not much, but sometimes when Hux has beaten someone bloody she gets a distant look in her eye. He interprets that as concern but Rae is hard to read. The only certainty Hux has is that Rae likes him, other fae don’t. It shouldn’t matter because he has six knights to command, and polite requests have never stopped iron blades. 

Rae, whose fury is crystallised ice, promises everything they do is for the glory of the empire, she keeps Armitage to herself, slowly unveiling him as she forges the fae into a weapon — hers; Hux, however, will not be a tool. What the court knows of Armitage is this: small but vicious, Revan is his favourite but he likes the others too, and Rae will not allow political scheming to undermine her protege. 

Rae who is sent away by the emperor without reason.

( _“Are you really sure this is what you want, Armitage?”_

 __

 __

 _“We can extinguish all the stars and start again.”_ )

Rae, Rae, Rae. Her name in his nightmares the only memory of caution left. 

  


* * *

  


Ben sees his first fae when he’s five years old and crying up a storm, eyes and nose the shade of an apple. He hates the cold, his mitts are damp from cavorting in the snow for too long. His crying pierces the eerie quiet that normally blankets the darkest parts of the forest. This is his first holiday, his parents rented a cabin in upstate New York but it had snowed all week. Spring was having a late start here.

One moment he had been playing hide and seek with his father, the next the forest had turned into a maze from which Ben could not be extricated. His tears freezing on his cheeks, his lips turning a pale shade of blue, he radiates vulnerability like a siren call.

Predators do not resist it. People who are lost in the woods do not come to good ends, monsters do not discriminate between good and bad men.

“Why are you crying?” The voice comes from a — monster, person, thing, nothing — Ben doesn’t know what to call it, the face is smooth with no nose, two horns protrude from its head in a spiral, and its skin is the shade of moss and rotten bark. 

Ben is too taken aback to continue crying as the faun captures his hand, tugging him along a narrow path through the trees. “You’re lucky no one is here but me, you’d make quite a guest.” 

They are a fading race; decadent halls, mad-touched dwellers, and dwindling guests — children becoming husks before being crushed by the weight of snow. It was warmer out here than in the depths of the realm.

“Come on. Good little boys shouldn’t wonder in the woods.” _Not safe, never safe, do not come back._ (Ben won't for many years, because the fawn made him promise, and good little boys keep their promises to forgotten shadows).

When Han finds him Ben is glad to be scooped up and tucked safely in the warmth of his father's arms. That is the last time he feels safe: connected to earth and sky, his parents between, and Ben at the centre of the world — the brightest sun.

By the time Ben falls asleep in Leia’s arms he’s forgotten the man-thing, the safety, but not the promise.


	2. a solid unlit white sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is skin against his own, fingers wrapped around his wrist, and this is a stranger that has now invaded his personal space: an unseen collision with consequences; out here, no human ought to have been able to see Hux, much less _touch_ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Anne Carson's The Glass Essay. Special smishings love to Ajax, and my beanie for proofreading. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> Based on [bona-mana](bona--mana.tumblr.com) // [neomelodrama](http://archiveofourown.org/users/neomelodrama/pseuds/Bona-mana)'s art, please go look and tell them how awesome their work is!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and/or comments, your support is appreciated!

There is skin against his own, fingers wrapped around his wrist, and this is a stranger that has now invaded his personal space: an unseen collision with consequences; out here, no human ought to have been able to see Hux, much less _touch_ him. 

Warmth spreads at the point of contact, his exterior wavers — from cold indifference to open surprise that cannot be tucked away between the corners of his carefully constructed persona. 

Unbalance has exploded like a supernova birthed from surprise, and Hux finds his body angling towards the stranger, seeking purchase to avoid being pulled in further, but Ben is like the sun, and gravity obeys. 

All his life Hux has found himself trapped in forces that supersede his own abilities, in spite of Rae’s training, and his considerable will. Whoever this human is, there is a trickle of fire at the edges of his fingertips — the crackling promise of the unknown, of exploitable power.

Hux would harness the sun.

“I’m sorry, _who_ are you?” Hux’s tone implying that he’s not really sorry but irritated at the manhandling occurring in the middle of the street, though people step around them as if their altercation merits no more than a cursory glance. 

And now that Ben is here in this moment, that the redhead is real, ( _why is your skin so cold?_ ) he can’t quite formulate the answer he had meticulously constructed in the past few days. Rather, he can’t stop staring at the waves of red hair tied back neatly — he could have sworn it was shorter a moment ago.

It was like he had been staring at a kaleidoscopic reflection, and now that Hux was pinned beneath his eyes the layers were rearranging themselves into what was _true_. (Not real, Hux had always been real).

“Well?” 

Ben’s throat is closing up, even as Hux begins trying to shake off the uninvited grip. “Wait, wait —” A half aborted gesture with his left hand, trying to placate Hux, but Ben has no intentions of letting go. Not now. Instead he alters angle so it’s firm but not bruising. 

And had he not been wearing a business man’s suit before? There were black imposing robes instead that looked altogether far too uncomfortable to wear during this weather. Hux is still looking at him expectantly, but his struggles have ceased in intensity, almost resigned to Ben’s intention of not letting go.

“ _What_ are you?” Because Hux is not — cannot be the same as Ben is right now: flesh and blood, mortal and, though Ben denies it, alone. 

“Really? That seems like a rude thing to ask a stranger.” Hux scoffs, finally taking advantage of the Ben’s momentary struggle to understand what Hux _is_ to extract his wrist. He doesn’t attempt to flee unaware Ben has already seen him without the veil. 

That simple fact is enough to keep Hux there, his eyes narrowing as he begins to mentally recite Rae’s lessons. Her wisdom tucked away like a second voice in his head, he’d like to think that if he had a conscience it’d sound like her.

The hair remains long, the robes antiquated — Ben doesn’t know where to _start_. Are his eyes playing tricks? Is there a renaissance fair of some kind?

“Can I take your picture?” 

Hux cocks his head, “That’s why you felt the need to manhandle me?”

Ben’s gesture turns sheepish, uncertain as he makes a quick grab for his camera in case Hux decides to make an escape attempt, but Hux hasn’t moved when Ben turns back. Instead he is looking at Ben with a scowl that makes his face morph from ethereal to scary.

“I’m a photographer, so you know,” There is a nervous build-up of energy in his stomach, his hands overcompensating with gestures when words escape him. A flapping motion. A shrug. An attempted smile. “You know?”

“No, I really don’t.” Triumphant, cruel amusement at Ben’s disposition. “You ought to use words.”

Ben’s fingers tighten around the camera, “I’m _trying_. It’s just you’re so —” Ben can’t think of what would be a proper explanation that wouldn’t make him sound crazy, but then this man is out wearing robes suited for a medieval winter reenactment. So, it is not like he can judge. 

“Look, I’m sorry about grabbing you. I’m Ben, and I really would like to take your picture.” He follows this with what he knows to be his charming smile. The one that gets him numbers, and free drinks: pretty, impersonal, charming. “Please.”

“Well, _Ben_ , that’s a proposal I’ve not heard before.”

“Is that a yes?” He cannot hide the hope that colours his voice, and it’s evident Hux has caught onto it. There is something malicious in those clear grey-green-blue eyes that flits away as quickly as it appeared.

Hux’s lips look soft, Ben thinks he’d rather like him to say yes to more than a photograph. 

“Yes, _but_ just one.” There is a smirk playing at the corner of Hux’s mouth; an echo, a taunt, a bait set out to lure unsuspecting victims. Old habits die hard.

Hux’s kind are still monsters, even muzzled behind glamour and masks. It is perhaps more habit than a conscious intention, but the results are the same.

It makes something warm and frail bloom inside Ben. 

  


* * *

  


“Ben, I agreed to one photograph, I didn’t agree to being manipulated into ridiculous poses by your ridiculous hands.” Hux has spent the last half hour skillfully swatting Ben’s hands whenever they get too close. It’s almost as if Hux knows his full intentions.

(Not just the ones that have kept Ben up at night prior to this meeting, but the ones fanning the dozing ember encased in his ribs. The ones that urge Ben to touch and see if Hux’s hair is as long and soft as it seems, to determine if the robes worn are spun wool or some synthetic material Ben doesn’t know about). 

Hux is frustrating him at every turn, and if the tiny smirk is any indication, he knows it. 

“It needs to be right. Just,” Ben does the best impression of puppy eyes that he can, “Please?” If he can get Hux to sit right, he can get a picture to compare. There is an increasing obsessive need within Ben to check and double check that he’s not wrong.

That this is not a dream about to dissolve; dust to dust, ashes to ashes. 

“You know, maybe today is not the best day for this.” Hux is looking away at the incoming shades of the late afternoon across the sky. A moment ago he had been almost there, enough to touch, and now there is a distance in his expression that was too vast for Ben to cross.

(Maybe not today, but he _would_ ) — that thought is enough to spur Ben on to ask. There is an uncomfortable thrumming in his chest fanned by the sudden change in mood. 

“So, you’ll give me your number?” It feels like a stupid thing to ask, Ben isn’t sure _why_ exactly, but at least the question seems to draw Hux’s attention back. His expression shutters surprised before recuperating into a feigned smile. 

Ben doesn’t like that smile at all, almost as if he sees the imprint of the monster behind the sharp cheekbones and red hair. There is a muzzle that reigned in all the emotions that strained at the edges, Hux is burning beneath — bright enough to illuminate what had frozen over inside Ben.

He wonders if Hux felt it too.

“No.” But it doesn’t sound like a definitive ‘no’ and Ben waits, mouth half-open in protest until Hux deigns to finish, “I’ll find you.”

 _Yes,_ Ben thinks with the self assured confidence of someone who had never experienced the devastation of fire, _Hux must have felt it too_. 

  


* * *

  


Ben smiles, Hux is early.

He is waiting on the curb, dressed in slacks with his hair combed back — there is a ripple again, as if this is only half a picture. Ben isn’t sure what he expects to see beneath but oh, oh does he want to see. 

“You’re late.” Hux’s voice sharp, none of the lingering vulnerability that seems to permeate through now and again. These meetings have become habit by now, every couple of days Ben will go out with his camera, and throughout the day Hux will find him. 

Their favourite meeting place, if it may indeed be called that, is the curb where they had their first collision. The ritual of their encounters centres Ben, he finds the routine like a lifeline — no matter the unpredictability of his life, this at least is certain. 

Besides, Hux still hasn’t allowed Ben to have his picture. He has to come back (though whether he means himself or Hux, Ben can’t be sure).

“You’re early.” Ben counters, allowing his smile to grow wide, the singsong ‘I know something you don’t’ held back, but only _just_. “It’s not even noon.”

Usually it is the afternoon when Hux appears, an encased cold beauty and air of mystery lingering as they set on their walks. Ben still wants to find the perfect place for his photograph, but more than that he just wants to touch Hux.

His skin is always so cadaverously cold in sharp contrast with the rage in his green gaze; Ben is certain Hux has, or will one day, murder someone. 

“Buy me a coffee.” Hux’s demands are never followed with open smiles, just tiny, conniving smirks, as if he knows Ben will do anything (and Ben would, but that is not the point). “And cake.” He presses his tongue over his lower lip.“I’ve been craving sweets.”

Ben tries to ignore how uncomfortable his pants feel. 

“Yeah.” He’s entranced by that treacherous mouth, all Ben wants is to grab it between his teeth and wipe that smirk off; but he won’t do that because touching Hux will burn him, of that Ben is sure. 

The spell wears off, Ben feels a trickle of annoyance settle between his shoulder blades, Hux really is such an arrogant prick. “You’re always craving sweets.” 

“Perhaps.” 

And in that moment Ben wants to shake Hux by the shoulders, and shake him until his bones rattle. The man is beautiful and exasperating. Addictive. Dangerous. And as long as Ben doesn’t take the picture they have a reason to meet.

His mission to prove — what had he been wanting to prove? It seems irrelevant now that Hux is here almost daily. Pictures are washed away memories that belong in drawers, Ben wants this moment — wants it to be solid instead of slipping grains of sands between his fingertips.

He purchases two coffees and two cakes — Hux eats both, listening to Ben’s stories between large bites that are unbecoming of such an elegant looking man. He bites at each cake like a child, savouring and spilling crumbs.

There is a challenge in Hux’s eyes that makes Ben swallow half an ice-cube by mistake. It hurts enough that the moment is lost.

Ben doesn’t take Hux’s picture that day either. 

  


* * *

  


Hux doesn’t know why he keeps coming back. 

(No). Rae would be disappointed if he lied to himself, she thought lies were ugly things that belonged at the bottom of a drawer, out of sight and mind. Hux found that lies come rather easily to him because his face lends itself to deception. (No, the truth is: his entire being found itself at home between the lies — what a disappointing protege in the end). 

Deception is a fae trait but Rae had not been like others; had she been, her exile would’ve been a lot more politically complicated. 

He expects the gold-feathered canary to return with a spell, a note, an acknowledgement attached. It comes home after delivering his messages and gifts, Hux counts their acceptance a small victory in this particular war.

Eventually there would be an answer. Hux knows his mentor, and she is nothing if not filled with a sense of purpose, and tenacity. Curiosity, too, less so but easily fostered by carefully crafted letters. 

Hux has time.

He retraces his path back (home), he feels the sting of the cold with each breath — thinks of Ben, and _that_ world with its radiant sun: Ben’s city. Those thoughts make the snow feel more oppressive than usual, even with his scarf drawn over the lower half of his face.

Revan is waiting when Hux gets back, the citadel a brooding giant at his back: ugly, grey and crumbling. Revan is blocking his path, and Hux almost allows the insolence to pass because he is _tired_ , he wants to go to bed, and get back to his duties tomorrow.

(His duties have a name: Ben, Ben, Ben — and Hux has theories, and thoughts to justify his fascination because otherwise it would be admitting that he is weak).

“Welcome back.” And Hux wishes Revan’s tone were anything other than empty, at least with a scrap of anger Hux would be justified in lashing out. As it stands they both know it would be weak, and childish to do so.

Not that Hux isn’t tempted.

“Shouldn’t you be on duty?”

“I don’t know, should I?” Revan has forgone wearing his mask for this meeting, an attempt at familiarity that Hux really is not comfortable with. When he invited Revan into his bed it was with an express understanding that it was just that: power exercised through physical means. 

Through shared intimacies, Hux has learnt to read the moods of his Knights perfectly. He knows more of them than they ever intended to share; now he feels a flicker of panic, had there been a miscalculation? Had he become as transparent to Revan as Revan was to him?

No.

Hux is far too careful to slip in such a way. “Do the Knights need me to hold their hands? If so perhaps I ought to look at replacing a few.” Hux feels the rage (flickers on, out, in — off). 

“You’ve been gone a lot.” Revan is suddenly looking away, even though his words sound accusatory. He is not going to challenge Hux’s decisions to come and go, despite the desire to do so.

“Have I?” Hux raises an eyebrow, tilts his head slightly. One day soon, he is going to have to deal with Revan. (Not yet but soon).

“Yes, I guess — are you — “ Revan waves a hand around in a circular motion, “ — are you planning something, Hux?”

The question shouldn’t perturb him like this, but it becomes a living thing: an answer he doesn’t want to think too deeply about curling at the back of his throat. This answer has teeth and a smile. Best let it lie. 

“No, what could I possibly be planning? Starkiller is nearly complete, is it not?” He allows his voice to drop in faux intimacy as he draws closer to Revan. “I’ve done everything as the emperor has asked.”

That night, under the covers, Hux is more vicious than usual — his soul has wounds too deep to heal. 

  


* * *

  


Hux props his cheek on the back of his hand, his hair spills over his shoulder like a river; it seems so bright, so much like a living thing with a mind of its own. _You’re never going to take my picture, are you?_

There are five (streaks) of light across the sky (deep red). That is not a colour Ben likes though it still fills him with a kind of warm wonder. 

Hux’s laughter — broken, **rage-filled**. Ben follows the footsteps left behind, the snow increasingly deep until he is waist deep. 

Neck deep.

Hux’s gaze above. _You should’ve taken the picture and left. It’s too late now._

The dream disintegrates, dissolving in the eye of the storm inside Ben’s mind. He’s drowning in the white ocean, treading in hostile waters. 

Ben feels his throat close up — he wakes, leans closer to brush errant strands — there is a name of the tip of his tongue.

Hux. Hux. Hux.

He’s so tired. The phantom of his childhood picture is real (sometimes, Ben is certain the monsters beneath his bed are also real) and it doesn’t mean anything; there is nothing solid for Ben to grab onto.

His mind feels cast adrift, but when has he not felt alone? Ben has felt alone all his life, surrounded by kindness that did not permeate; he learned the motions from his parents and friends. It never sunk bone deep. 

He wonders if this makes him a bad person, and whether Hux will stop coming to see him when he realises. The thought causes a knotted sensation to sink from his throat down to his stomach, spreading across each finger until there are stars dancing in his vision.

  


* * *

  


The casualties of the aftermath are these: (one)table, (two)chairs, (four)plates. 

  


* * *

  


Names, Armitage had been taught, are sacred. 

Here are the rules: Never give a fae your name. Never eat the food they offer you. Never trust their word: a half-truth is a lie, an omission is a lie, a convoluted explanation often leads to a lie. They cannot help their nature of deception.

“Power in names are absolute,” Rae had spoken from across the room, her eyes on Armitage as he carefully weaved magic over cuts: the blood turned black, the skin stitching itself together again. There was a grotesque symmetry, as if Armitage’s magic was unweaving time itself, and making the past present. “Our names can cut like iron, no spell will heal you then.”

“You mean just like the spell the emperor used to cleave my knight in half?” Armitage finished the spell with a flick of his fingers: no scar, just a smudge of dirt easily displaced by a wet cloth. “ _Snoke_.” As if whispering that name would allow Armitage to wield an equal weapon, and return the favour; an eye for an eye — cut his knight in half and he will cut _you_ in half.

Rae’s look was of disapproval, “No one here has the power to do anything with that name.” Rae seemed certain that even if a mortal had that name, nothing would come of it. “That isn’t the point of my words, Armitage.” She stood, pulling his hand to examine the healed cut looking for any flaws in the spell. 

“Then what is the point?” A sneer, ready to lash out with that well known anger Rae has seen, “It’s not like I’m stupid enough to hand my name over to a mortal.”

Rae smiled, something in her expression that made Armitage rage in silence. It is as if she was waiting for that fire to crack him open, and burn — burn everything until there was nothing left; to consume itself.

In between the growing pride there was a growing sliver of worry for him. 

Under the candlelight Rae could see her fate written across those sharp cheekbones: the promise of an inevitable downfall, softened by the flickering vulnerability in Armitage's eyes.

 _Hux_ was not her end.

Rae wondered what Armitage’s downfall would look like.

  


* * *

  


“Your name?” Ben asks on their second meeting, “You didn’t give me your name last time.” He smiles wide, Hux finds the expression appealing. There is a promise for great violence in that set of wide shoulders, in that warm glance that heats Hux’s skin. 

Declining an answer would be easy, Hux is quite certain that Ben would take a silent nothing at this point. His fascination has nothing to do with Hux, it is based on the memory of him or whatever memory Hux evokes in Ben.

But Hux has his own agenda that is forging itself around this too-curious-for-his-own-good human. His intentions are easily tucked beneath Ben’s own need for understanding; the situation puts Hux at a ridiculous advantage, Rae was right: humans are such malleable things, even sand would put more of a fight.

Hux hates sand. 

In the grand scheme of things, what is a name? Rae’s voice in his head tuts in warning, but he has become better at ignoring it as of late

( _“Are you really sure this is what you want, Armitage?”_

 _“We can extinguish all the stars and start again.”_ ).

The sun rises and sets. The tide follows the changes of the moon. He still likes owning people. He still wants the world to burn. 

The word comes easier than expected despite the pause after the question. 

“Hux.” 

“Just Hux?”

“Just Hux.”


	3. [interlude] starkiller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phasma knows to step back and let Hux weave the magic, strings of luminous red light connecting each pieces. It forms a constellation: the heart of Starkiller beats once, then again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [bona-mana](bona--mana.tumblr.com) // [neomelodrama](http://archiveofourown.org/users/neomelodrama/pseuds/Bona-mana)'s art, please go look and tell them how awesome their work is!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and/or comments, your support is appreciated!

The inside of Starkiller is what one would describe as a very fancy mausoleum filled with stale silence. A single point overlapping across worlds that is devoid of anything living. It had been hallowed out by magic and then additions had been made to its core that glows a faint ember red.

Outside winter rages but inside there is a deceptive warmth casted by the crystals Hux and the knights of Ren have spent lifetimes collecting. Not just any crystal will do, these are kyber crystals and belong in the hearts of men. 

The strongest _beings_ (stars) have hearts of kyber. 

Revan's contributions are lined alongside Phasma's who has by far the most impressive ones — aside from Hux's of course — glinting with varying intensity. Hux allows himself to feel proud, he wishes that Rae were here to help him orchestrate and atune the crystals.

Each one is suspended midair by magic, and though they glint they are mostly dormant until Hux holds out his hands and begins weaving a spell with carefully enunciated hums. They all must resonate to him and him alone: they must beat in tandem with his heart and yield.

Cradled in his hands is the latest acquisition — what should be the last piece of Starkiller. The Emperor had done something before handing it back, as he did with each piece, infusing them with power until they were all the same shade of red.

Hux envies that show of power; Starkiller would never be fully his due to Snoke's interference. Rae would be relieved, but then, she had always held a softness tucked away beneath her breastbones, alongside the heart. One which Hux lacked — _Armitage_ had extinguished it in his rage.

_And yet._ Ben's face comes to mind, unwelcome and soothing the unyielding storm beneath his skin. It is a weakness that should not be allowed to take root, least it grow and curl around his ribs, blooming delicately by his heart until his purpose is all but left aside.

Hux won't have it.

He has come too far to fail.

"I'm surprised it has taken you this long to come sync the last crystal." 

Hux whirls around, taken by surprise and feeling all the more defensive for his lapse; even if it's just one of his knights standing there with her trademark smirk and helmet under one arm, blond hair swept messily over one eye.

"It takes—"

"I'm even more surprised you didn't hear me coming, I've been standing here for five minutes, fearless leader." She continues as if Hux had not even spoken, her smirk growing as she pulls the frayed edges of his magic in search for weakness.

"Phasma." Hux grinds his teeth, slams his magic down as if he were shutting a door over intruding fingers that were prying it open. He is gratified to hear her sharp intake of breath and subsequent recoil, rubbing her fingers against her thigh. "What have I said about eavesdropping? It's not polite."

"True, but you can't blame me for trying to take a peek, Hux. You've been strange lately, even the Emperor has mentioned your sudden absences." Phasma dressed in black with silver outlines folds her arms and waits for an explanation. 

Logistically, Hux knows that she is trying to extend a helping hand, otherwise she would not be telling him this. That his altered behaviour has caused enough attention that even Snoke has taken notice, and the Emperor’s attention is a guillotine: swift, merciless and yet predictable if one read the signs. 

Revan had tried to warn him too, but Hux had dismissed his words as possessiveness. Revan's least attractive quality, though Hux is equally if not more possessive about what belongs to _him_. 

"He's never cared what I do as long as it produces results, as long as Starkiller is finished." Hux gestures around him at the nearly completed structure ignoring the uncomfortable stab of betrayal he feels from Snoke. He's not a child that requires _supervision_. 

Phasma towers over him stepping close enough to curl her hand beneath his elbow and squeeze. She presses her lips together, holding back the unwelcome truth: Snoke does care, he cares all too much when the pattern deviates.

“Hux, is this what you really want?” The question dredging unwanted memories. Uncertainty begins to creep humming low at the back of his throat with an answer. Yesnoyesnoyesnoyesnoyesyesyes.

_(You don’t know — this sounds like Rae’s voice, chiding. Hux hates her._

_Briefly.)_

Opening his palm the crystal hovers, and Hux feels the voices of Starkiller in his head, each Kyber waking: a cacophony of voices out of sync, their rising screams human in nature — understandable considering their origin. Hux likes it, in the same way he enjoys fantasising about his fingers around Snoke’s throat and — 

Phasma knows to step back and let Hux weave the magic, strings of luminous red light connecting each pieces. It forms a constellation: the heart of Starkiller beats once, then again. Hux’s eyes are the colour of a storm at sea; power: vibrant, dangerous, untethered.

The kyber moves to fill the final gap; the screaming syncs, buzzing in tandem. 

Another heartbeat— 

_(Ben’s smile beneath, sun touched)_ —

Hux feels his pulse increase — 

_(Ben’s hands, fingers dwarfing a cup of coffee)_ — 

An uneven beat — 

Then too fast — rising to match Hux’s heart( _Ben, Ben, Ben_ ). 

Phasma’s warning comes too late, the web is already falling apart and Hux feels the recoil of power lash out; tampers it down by redirecting it into the last crystal. Screams replace the buzzing, the red flickers like a warning siren then goes out.

One final crack; a million voices scream in agony; then everything goes silent.

“Hux, Hux!” Phasma is shaking his shoulder, and he leans his weight against her grip to maintain his stance. Hux is proud but not too proud to admit that he needs her help keeping the ground beneath his feet. “What was that, what did you do?” There is a frightened undercurrent in her tone, and he cannot blame her — this was not intentional.

His vision swims, aches, refocuses slowly. “I don’t know.”

“Your spell was off by —” She gestures towards his hand and goes silent waiting for Hux to notice the results of this failure.

Hux looks down ignoring the way his throat sizes at the failure. It cracked. He snarls, tempted to crush the kyber beneath his boots. 

The sudden onslaught of energy had been too much, and by consequence this failure would set them back — _his_ failure — would cost them years. Maybe decades. 

“Hux.”

The fury beneath ignites, “Stop saying my name like that, Phasma. It was a flawed kyber, better we found out now rather than later while operating Starkiller. We will report this to the Emperor and begin the search again. After all with a population of billions there ought to be a suitable carrier.”

This incident had been just an statistically unlikely yet possible accident. Nothing more.

Phasma is looking at him like with a familiar expression, one that says she does not quite believe his words despite the conviction behind them. She has always been good at reading Hux, at knowing what he would like to keep hidden, and knowing what he does not yet does. “I’ll call the others then.”

“Two days. They have duties to finish before we can reconvene.” In his hands the cracked kyber seems to hum so quietly as if to lull a child to sleep. Hux ought to throw it away; instead he pockets it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are more than welcome, appreciated and hoarded! Over at [tumblr](http://archistratego.tumblr.com/).


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